What's in a name?
by Heuksal
Summary: After an early heist gone sour, Hoxton discovers something about Wolf.


The van to the safehouse was the worst walk of shame in Hoxton's life. Dallas steered him all the way into the apartment with a hand clamped on his shoulder. As much as Hoxton wanted to shrug it off, he teetered dangerously on his own. His neck felt like jelly, trying to support his heavy, aching head. On Dallas's other side, Chains let Wolf lean against him while holding a pressure bandage on his own bloody arm.

Dallas herded them through the kitchen and into the back room, helped Wolf down onto the mattress, and sat Hoxton against the wall. He shoved a bag of frozen peas under Wolf's shirt (eliciting a pained yelp), pressed Wolf's hands to it, and growled, "Keep that there."

He stood up, trapping them both with his stern gaze.

"You—" he pointed at Hoxton, "have him take a deep breath once every few minutes. Call for me if he can't. And you—" he rounded on Wolf, "make sure he doesn't pass out. I don't like how his pupils look and I'm probably going to have to stitch that gash later. But _now,_ I'm going to go take care of Chains, and pull out all the bullets he got in him while bailing out _you_ clumsy flatfoots."

The door slammed behind him.

"Now sit there and think about what you did," Hoxton mocked in a high-pitched voice. "If he keeps up with this bloody brother complex I'm going to shoot him." Spitefully, he reached up to the plaster over the cut on his forehead. A cloaker had taken him by surprise and done its damndest to crack his skull like an egg; his mask had fractured when the force of the hit bounced his head off the floor. There had apparently been a few minutes of unconsciousness, because the next thing he remembered was staring at Chains's arse, carried like a sack of flour. His brain still felt pureed, but that didn't mean Dallas had to treat him like a fucking child. He'd give that obnoxiously protective jackass a piece of his mind…later.

He hissed when he brushed the cut and yanked his fingers away. They were tacky with drying blood, and he tried to wipe them off on his jacket. It was beyond saving at this point, between the blood and the skid marks and the cloaker bootprints.

They'd been dreadfully unprepared for a real fight. It had been a stealth job, supposedly simple; he'd pick a few locks, Wolf would drill the safe, and Chains and Dallas would act as spotters. At the end of the night, they'd have intel that would lead them to a job worth millions. Nothing they hadn't done a dozen times before.

But this time, there'd been a crucial piece of information missing. There was a trainee guard who hadn't been added to the official schedule. Hoxton had rounded a corner in a part of the building he had thought was empty, directly into the guard's chest. He'd been quicker on the draw, and as soon as he fired (and missed, which Hoxton felt was an important piece of information Dallas was ignoring) the whole facility lit up like a Christmas tree. There had suddenly been an angry swarm of security between them and their backup.

Hoxton gingerly leaned his head against the wall, trying to will the ache away. His neck felt almost as bad and he closed his eyes, wishing for the comfort of sleep. He could hear Wolf's shallow breaths next to him, and through the thin walls there was the deep rumble of Chains's voice. Dallas had been exaggerating in his fit of pique, he thought. Chains had only been shot once. Still, it was truly a nightmare of a job; maybe he could dream himself something better.

Fingers jabbed him in the ribs. He jolted, having been closer to sleep than he realized.

"Stay awake," said Wolf.

"Piss off," he snapped. "I'm not taking that from you, too."

Wolf's facial expressions didn't change much unless he was very emotional, but Hoxton recognized the pull of his thin eyebrows. Unhappiness, but not the anger Hoxton was expecting.

"Dallas was worried."

"Dallas worries if you spend too long in the fucking toilet!"

"No," Wolf tensed as if to sit up, but clearly thought better of it, by the way his fingers tightened on the makeshift ice pack. "In the van. Asked your name…three times."

Hoxton only remembered once.

It had been the standard reel of questions for a head injury, modified to suit their occupation. _Do you know your name? Do you know where you are? What's your alias right now? _He strained his mind, trying to imagine hearing that litany more than once. It didn't seem like there were any gaps in his memory, aside from being unconscious. Three times? It unsettled him.

He grunted in acknowledgement, still dissatisfied but having lost his momentum. The silence stretched awkwardly, until Wolf's rapid breathing did jog something in his memory.

"Oi." He gave Wolf's leg a hard nudge. "Take a deep breath."

"It hurts just…being like this." Shirt open, flat on his back, and struggling to breathe, Wolf did look the picture of pathetic. An echo of conscience tugged at Hoxton. Wolf was the unfortunate victim of a bulldozer living up to its name, and one of the things he did remember was Wolf's terrified scream as the 'dozer charged him.

But still…"Dallas said so, didn't he?" Hoxton's smile had a nasty edge. "If you have to be Dallas's nurse, then so do I."

Wolf glared at him, but slowly the look faded to strained resignation. He was new enough to the group that Dallas's friendly charisma had him bad. Dallas typically gave Wolf extra instruction to keep him from causing too much collateral damage, but Wolf seemed pleased by the attention. He took half a breath twice, as if building his courage up, exhaled through his nose, and breathed in deeply.

Wolf curled in on himself like a frightened hedgehog, his inhalation terminating in a pained wheeze that sent him into a fit of gasping and coughing. His knuckles were white against the bag of peas as his chest heaved violently. The spell lasted almost long enough for Hoxton's entertainment to fade to concern, but soon enough the gasps became more regular, the coughing less prominent. Finally Wolf was left lying on his side, wrung out like a limp rag. Even his eyes were wet as he started taking shallow breaths once more.

"Fuck…you," he heaved with great effort.

Hoxton smirked, feeling properly even. But his satisfaction did fade, and it wasn't long until they were both sitting in silence again. He couldn't hear Chains through the wall any more, but he thought he could make out Dallas's raspy voice raised in anger.

"He's not mad," he said to Wolf, just to have something to say.

Wolf's eyes opened (Hoxton belatedly realized he could have tried to sleep while Wolf was too drained to pay attention, and cursed himself). "What?"

"Dallas. He's more mad at himself than us. Always gets this way when a job goes pear-shaped." Hoxton leaned back against the wall again, trying to find a comfortable position. "Soon he'll remember he's actually supposed to be mad at Bain for the bad intel, and then you'll get to see a titanic fit."

"Oh?"

"Last time something like this happened he wouldn't take a job from Bain for a month. Bain kept sniffing around every few days, trying to get back in his good books. Like a boyfriend being kicked to the couch." He chuckled. "He'll probably even try to bribe you. He got Gage to give me a discount on a rifle if I told Dallas to take his calls. Should be good entertainment for us while we're laid up."

Wolf laughed, carefully. "Maybe he should try flowers."

The silence was more comfortable now, but it chafed at Hoxton. Although Wolf could be a good conversationalist, his current condition kept him limiting his words. Hoxton ached too much to get up, and focusing on Wolf was the only thing preferable to sleep.

He still only remembered one round of questioning from Dallas in the van, but he did remember answering. "I guess it's not a secret any more that my name's Jim. Still answer quicker to Hoxton, though."

He had been given an abridged version of Wolf's profile when Dallas recruited him, but it hadn't included a Christian name, just 'Wolf'. "It's how he introduced himself," Dallas had shrugged when he asked. Bain certainly knew the name, but it was more than a little rude to go digging up dirt on a comrade.

"Will you tell me your name? Only the first. I promise I'm not going to go looking up anything," he said. It was a risky question—Wolf's life _before_ was a minefield, a violently explosive temper lurking behind every step. Hoxton wasn't entirely sure why he was asking it, either. Maybe he did have brain damage.

Wolf certainly seemed to think so, with the openly astonished look he was giving Hoxton.

"You already…know my name, Hoxton," he said slowly, worry written on his face.

Hoxton scowled. Maybe Wolf had everyone else convinced he was off his rocker, but Hoxton knew he was much less obtuse than anyone guessed. "It's just your name, not your fucking cup size."

"My name is Wolf." He was talking like Hoxton didn't understand English. Before Hoxton could stop him, he was pushing himself to a sitting position. His face took on a ghastly cast and his breathing got choppy again, but he leaned forward and peered at Hoxton's eyes.

"What the fuck is the matter with you?" Hoxton shoved his hand away.

"I need to get Dallas." Thankfully it took a long time for Wolf to coordinate standing; Hoxton's vision was swimming from the effort, but he lunged for it and tangled his fingers in the back of Wolf's shirt, yanking him back down. Wolf nearly fell into Hoxton's lap and bent double, clutching his ribs again.

"If you get that fucking mother hen in here for an encore act, comrade or not, I will shoot _you!_ What's gotten into you?"

Wolf stopped to catch his breath, still staring at Hoxton like he had grown another head. "You don't know my name, Hox. Your concussion is worse than Dallas thought. We have to get help." His voice was full of earnest worry, and Hoxton had never seen so much concern written on his face.

It was hard to be mad at him when he got all doe-eyed, even when he was being a moron. Hoxton groaned. "I'm fucking fine, Wolf. I know who you are, I was just asking your first name. Kept thinking about when Dallas asked me mine. You don't have to tell me, forget about it."

Wolf slumped against the wall next to him, favoring his side. His face was slightly less tense, but only slightly. "But my first name is Wolf."

Was Wolf really so far gone that he believed he was the mask? Hoxton hadn't thought so, but perhaps he was wrong. He was panicking over some imaginary memory lapse, after all. Hoxton sighed. "I meant the name your parents gave you."

That was it, he'd definitely hit the Wolf-brand trip mine labelled FAMILY and there would be an explosion any second. At least Wolf couldn't do much damage with his ribs already broken.

But…no, there was no detonation. Instead, Wolf was trying to look at his pupils again.

"Would you quit that?" He batted Wolf's hand away without much force.

"I think something is really wrong. Wolf is my given name."

"Wolf's not a name." Hoxton's mouth said it without any approval from Hoxton's brain. The one thing he knew that consistently set Wolf off, time and time again, was getting in the way of Wolf being Wolf. Whether it was hostages or cops, Wolf looked at all obstacles with the same cold ruthlessness.

"Lots of people are named Wolf!" For some reason, Wolf looked childishly offended instead of murderous. Maybe this was all a concussion-induced hallucination, because there was no way this was happening in reality. "Maybe it's old-fashioned, but I'd rather be Wolf than another Kjell."

Wolf's accent was getting thicker, and the situation was starting to make Hoxton's head spin. "Wolf isn't a real name."

"Yes it is! U-L-F, Wolf!"

Hoxton's train of thought exploded.

"Say that again?" he said weakly.

"U-L-F. Aren't those are the right English letters?" Wolf's color had risen during the debate, but he was calming. He looked eager now that he was seemingly getting through to Hoxton.

"Oolf?"

"Wolf." _Ulf._ Now that Hoxton was listening for it, he could hear the missing 'W' that his mind automatically edited back in. Wolf's normal speaking voice was soft, and Hoxton was used to mentally translating foreign accents. English wasn't Wolf's first language; he must have assumed people pronouncing his name differently was an accent issue.

"Oh my fucking god, your name is Ulf. We've been calling you Wolf the _whole time_."

"Right, Wolf! That's my name!" Wolf beamed. "You were really scaring me for a minute there, Hoxtinite."

"We just thought you wanted to be called Wolf…" Hoxton said numbly.

"It means wolf in Swedish," Wolf explained, and damn it all, Hoxton could hear the difference now. It was barely a matter of a breath, but it was there. _Woolf._ He'd never heard Wolf say the name of the actual animal before. Rather, he'd thought he was always hearing it but now everything was completely backwards. It was like taking a step away from an optical illusion and seeing it turn into smears.

"Ulf," he said to himself. He didn't know a damn about Swedish, but he'd always known Wolf as Wolf, so he supposed it was a fitting name. "…I'll keep calling you Wolf. Don't want to confuse anyone."

"Yes, that's my name," said Wolf, starting to look concerned again. Hoxton waved him off.

"I know who you are. Just lie back down, I'll be sure to tell Doctor Dallas you were a very good nurse." Wolf shot him a look, but lowered himself back to the mattress with the speed of a racing snail. Hoxton virtuously resisted the urge to kick his arm out from under him.

Wolf settled down with a sigh of relief, curled towards Hoxton. The pain in his head was starting to recede—or at least becoming a regular, tolerable throb rather than spikes of dizzying agony—and he thought Wolf's breathing was less rapid, too. He could hear quiet voices through the wall.

"What if we sent Dallas flowers?" Wolf asked, after a peaceful moment.

"What?"

"Signed 'from Bain'."

"Nah," said Hoxton. Wolf's face fell. "Bain signs his notes '—B'."

Wolf grinned. "Roses?"

"Bain would look up some flower of forgiveness garbage. He likes being clever like that."

"Authenticity," Wolf nodded, struggling to breathe and contain his laughter at the same time. "Would he send candy?"

"Oh, absolutely. He did last time—Dallas loves rotting his teeth on sweets—but he was so offended he ended up…"

By the time Dallas came back, they had their heads together over Wolf's mobile, poring over the Wikipedia entry on flower language.


End file.
